


Countdown

by anstaar



Series: what we can change [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Discussion of Rape, F/M, discussion of war crimes, mentions of Kareen/Serg, mentions of Karen/Vordarian, the conscience of an emperor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: As Gregor prepares to become Emperor in his own name, he finds family secrets in the royal family can never be purely personal.
Relationships: Aral Vorkosigan/Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan
Series: what we can change [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595479
Comments: 42
Kudos: 41





	1. 780

**Author's Note:**

> Serg's actions aren't talk about directly in this chapter, but the general implications of the history remain. 
> 
> On a note on things that have changed: the different ending to Vordarian's Pretendership left relations with Piotr Vorkosigan slightly different from canon, plus Kareen's survival means that, in some ways, Gregor & Miles are closer foster-siblings than they were when they were _actually_ foster-siblings.

In one month, Gregor will be Emperor of three planets. Gregor hasn’t spoken to his mother in almost two weeks. This second fact has been preying on his mind far more than the first. Miles, being Miles and so perceptive enough to be annoying, had pointed out that he already _was_ Emperor, and it’s unreasonable to be too caught up in worrying about the official start of his reign, since he’s been aware that it’s been coming since he was four years old. 

Luckily, Miles had to share this breezy attempt at cheering him up from over the console. Beta Colony is far enough that even he hasn’t been able to figure out what has really been bothering him. Gregor has always been glad that there are no vid cameras allowed close enough to let people who know them notice the unusual distance between the Princess-Dowager and her son-the-Emperor. Miles is also preoccupied with his own troubles, not that he would admit that anything is wrong in his dramatic ‘anthropological study’ of the differences between Barrayar and Beta Colony, complete with a compilation of news presenters seeming a slightly confused at the concept of Emperors. He’s good at filling up space, but Gregor knows how to read the things he doesn’t say. Miles can be annoyingly clever, but he hasn’t learned how to hide all his tells just yet. Gregor can track the fewer and fewer mentions of school and wonders if he was as obvious at fifteen. He keeps his worries out of his dry response, because there’s nothing else you can do with Miles. 

Gregor’s well aware that his worries about Miles are in part a distraction, in some ways a more effective one than Miles active attempts. It’s familiar. He knows Miles’ words, just as Miles knows his silences. But it’s not enough to stop his mind from circling back, just with new words. If Miles were home, he would notice the distance, but not understand. Miles, who doesn’t know how not to fight, probably finds it stranger that Gregor so rarely has any conflict with his mother. Gregor tries not to linger on that old jealousy. Miles always throws himself against limits, heedless of the lines Gregor has to be painfully aware of. Miles struggles against his parents attempts to keep him safe, even as they do their best to give him as much freedom as possible. Gregor has never been to Beta Colony. He has barely been anywhere, he’s too important. Gregor has his mother, and he dreads losing her. He has always been selfishly glad that she has all the protections and limitations of the royal family, so it’s unfair to complain that he has to live in them too. 

Now, he wonders if the nightmares of his mother fading away had been a premonition instead of a just the old childhood fear. If he was destined to lose her not by either of them being taken by outside force, but by his own actions. The child’s assumptions that her absence had to have been caused by his own failure to be good enough turned into a truth now that he’s a man with responsibility for his own actions. That’s what had started this. 

To say that Gregor hasn’t spoken with his mother in weeks veers towards the exaggerated dramatics he usually doesn’t allow himself to indulge in. They’ve maintained normal relations in public. He sits and listens to the discussions on the ceremony to mark the end of Lord Vorkosigan’s rule as regent and the normal meetings that have increasingly been part of his life over the years. He can even spend most of them thinking on what’s being said, or even trying to imagine what it will be like to hold them in his own right. 

Despite the occasional joke, this is not the first time he’s fought with his mother. Usually he would take the lack of frosty correctness of titles as a good sign. He wishes he had to sit through one of her overly polite reprimands, that he could gauge her thoughts. He could even wish for one of the worn thin talks about new responsibilities. He has been Emperor for as long as he can remember, and well used to discussions on what that meant, even when the final choices weren’t in his hands. He doesn’t know if he’s ready, but he had been told he shouldn’t be. He has always been told about the dangers of overconfidence, of reckless assumption of power. 

Gregor isn’t stupid. Outside of bland histories – even inside of those histories – there are few mentions of his father. He can’t remember his mother ever speaking of him in private. Neither Lord Vorkosigan nor Aunt Cordelia mention him either. The excuse that they didn’t know him seems to apply to everyone Gregor has met. He has had lessons on the Escobarran War free from patriotic spin. He could have guessed at something. He _had_ guessed something, enough to claim he was old enough to demand the truth, heart full of certainty that he was in the right. And his mother had told him. And the way he had responded – 

Understanding his mother’s schedule as he does now, Gregor is even more impressed that she had always carved out time to spend with him. She had carved out a space just for them with a ruthlessness few imagined the Princess-Dowager possessed. She had read to him, taught him games, been there as silent company in a time where he was just Gregor and she was just his mother. She had been a guide to his duties, firm but always explaining _why_ something was expected. She had never added her voice to those who talked about the importance of ensuring royal succession as quickly as possible. 

He had thought he could take the knowledge that that his father had been a poor husband, a reckless prince who had more dreams than sense. He had even wondered if it would make him feel more or less guilty for his flashes of jealousy that Lord Vorkosigan would never be his father. Everyone knows his Lord Regent’s dark secrets. Everyone still respects him. He had thought he was ready for an unflattering portrait, but when he’d been given what he asked for, he proved unable to take it. 

Gregor had told himself he was prepared, but maybe that was just another lie. There are plenty of other reasons for silences. Sorrow leaves voids filled with unspoken names. Prince Serg had died bravely – even if only by what Cordelia would call the most foolish _Barrayaran_ definition of the word. He had fought a war, unaware of the technology that would change its entire course. He had left behind a wife already incline to quiet. Gregor can say that he had been ready to hear of a villain, but he suspects he might have really been longing for a hero to fill the gap. He had wanted to be told of a man his mother had loved so much that she still couldn’t bear to speak of him, sixteen years later. A child’s dream of a father, a romantic image of mourning. 

That dream had been killed by quiet words just as fully as Serg had died in the reflected blast of his own weapon. And he’d proved that all his pretensions of being old enough to know the facts obscured in a simplified version of history were a lie. He had shown himself that his assurances that he didn’t listen to the whispers about the truth of Vordarian’s Pretendership. He had been given a monster, and he’d thrown back his own. He has seen his mother’s cool response to accusation, he had never before seen her freeze. He hadn’t stayed to watch her take in the truth of who he is.

Aunt Cordelia brings the end to the ripple of silences moving outward, as maybe only she could. Gregor has been avoiding her, aware that she was letting him. He could imagine one of her headshakes at Barrayaran ridiculousness, he hadn’t wanted to replace that image with the truth. When she knocks at his door, he could barely face opening it. The only thing worse is the idea of telling his guards to take her away. It’s too easy to imagine. 

“Lady Vorkosigan.” She takes a seat with a wry expression. “I was just listening to Miles’ message. I don’t think he’s getting along as well with his classmates as he hoped.”

Cordelia gives him a Look, the type that only she could manage, as it erased even the slightest doubt that she was even taking talking to the Emperor into the equation. “I’m not here to talk about Miles.” There’s a reassurance in her firmness, he knows that she would know that something was wrong just as easily as he did, but the proof is a relief to some of his worries. “Come on, kiddo, out with it.” 

“I asked mother about Prince Serg.” 

“I know.” Her response is steady, and as he meets her grey eyes he’s tempted to ask why she never said anything, why she had lied – but he remembers his mother’s face. It’s a question he won’t be able to ask until later. 

“About Vordarian –” The lecture he expected (wanted) doesn’t seem to be coming. He can imagine Aral’s reaction. The contained anger that he deserves. He isn’t a disappointing in the face of his father’s legacy but living up to it. A monster as my father was before me.

Cordelia sighs. “There are times when you and your mother are far too similar. Both of you feel responsible for everything. And you don’t talk about it. Not that you’ve had the best role models there. Talk to her, Gregor. You need to.” Gregor can’t think of many people who could argue with that look, he can’t summon up the will to be one of them. Not when it’s what he wants. The immediate response to his message is a spark of hope that he isn’t the only one. 

Gregor takes his mother’s arm as they walk through his grandfather’s gardens. It still feels strange to stand taller than her. The Princess-Dowager’s hair is still dark and thick, though Gregor is one of the few to know that there are covered strands of grey. He knows too the planned changes in hair style and clothing she’ll adopt when he fully takes on his role. She’ll become the staid elder with a son old enough to take up his proper mantel with the same grace she’d worn the responsibility to appear young and strong as the ruling generation. She had taught him the shifts in hair styles and clothes that marked power plays in the capital. She had taught him how to listen, how to watch, how hold onto the image of control when everything depended on you.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

She reaches up to brush back a strand of hair from his forehead. “You aren’t the only one who needs to apologize. She reaches up to brush away a strand of hair. “You aren’t the only one who needs to apologize. You were right, I should have told you sooner. Found some better way.”

He shakes his head, acceptance that he had done something needing apology not enough. “I was just trying to hurt you.”

The words leave a sick feeling his mouth at the truth of them, but it eases a little at the look of stern amusement only he gets to see. The look reserved for her son. “I know what you were trying to do. If it worked, it was just the same way that it hurt when you locked me out when you weren’t allowed on some trip. It’s the truth that carries weight. 

“Is bring up embarrassing stories your revenge?” 

It’s a weak try at a joke, but there are times when his attempts to lighten a mood are enough to warm a woman whose shadows never seem to fully leave her. It doesn’t work now, and he watches the play of light on her serious faces. He thinks again on Cordelia’s words, on the similarities between them. He wonders if his guardians hunt for those comparisons to avoid seeing anything of his other parent in him. 

“I wouldn’t have many to use. You were not allowed many embarrassing childhood stories. You will have more power than most can ever dream of, and we’ve always expected you to live up to the duties that come with that honor. Vor serve, an Emperor even more so, but that doesn’t make it always easy for a child.” 

“There are far worse lives.”

“There are. It was important that you always knew that. Perhaps it was important that you knew this truth too, but that can’t be changed.” They go forward. Sometimes he can’t tell if the voice in his head is his mother’s or his Regent’s, the words are often similar. The directness even more so. He doesn’t think he lets through any sign of acknowledging it as true or not. His mother shakes her head. “But when should I have told you? As a child, who already had too many responsibilities? You feared failing enough without adding more stones to crush you. You needed to know before someone else told you, but when would’ve done the least damage? Was it worse to have to ask or think that I felt there was a reason you had to know?”

He’s not sure if the questions are rhetorical or not. He doesn’t know the answers. He had asked to know. He doesn’t want to imagine learning and knowing that she had lied to him. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if she’d simply not answered. Would he have gone digging, or would he have told himself it wasn’t important? He can’t make himself ask. 

His mother turns fully, completely ignoring the image presented to distant watchers to cup his face. “I don’t have to say this is proof you’re nothing like him, I have known that for years.” She speaks with a certainty even harder to argue against than Cordelia’s. The words he needs to hear, from someone he can believe.

Gregor lets himself feel relieved as his mother holds him. He lets himself trust her. He is not his father. But knowing who he’s not doesn't answer the question of who he is.


	2. interlude: rewind (be kind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Emperor’s words have too much weight, even when spoken by Gregor Barra.

The farcical nature of Gregor’s position in the Imperial Service Academy hits him as he’s packing. Lucien Vorgarin had announced at the beginning of their first year that he’d brought thirty pairs of socks so he only has to do laundry once a month and still hasn’t escaped occasional jokes on the lines of how many pairs of underwear he’s packed, but apart from a few sets of casual clothes for off duty and one or two personal items that hopefully won’t provoke mockery, the cadets are expected to bring spartan efficiency to all aspects of their lives. There are a couple of other Counts who have slightly more formal suits tucked away in case something comes up that can sway even their hard-faced teachers, but those occasions are rare. 

Gregor Barra isn’t the only cadet whose uniforms are bespoke tailoring. He’s not the only one with Count colors hanging in the back of his closet. He is the only Emperor. He’s the one who needs to have clothes for formal occasions that need his presence, with a dispensation to be out of uniform. He’s the one who is taken out for meetings or squirreled away during emergencies (he hasn’t shed the last vestiges of the old terror at being woken by ImpSec in the middle of the night, but he knows how to hide it). He’s the one that makes the mask of meritocracy that can ill-fill some into just a joke. 

It’s not that Gregor thinks instructors treat him more delicately or that he doesn’t earn his grades. He is getting the most prestigious officer training of the Barrayaran Imperial Service, but he’ll never be an officer. Whatever pretense is made, ultimately everyone else is training to protect his life with their own. Gregor plays the Emperor-to-be and Count Vorbarra and just Gregor, but those constructs are masterpieces of life compared to Cadet Barra. 

There are moments he can forget. When he had sat after the final entrance exam, waiting to hear. During exercises intense enough that the desire to win overcomes any calculated deference. Long hours into a study session where others feel free enough to complain about teachers and workload in their exhaustion. Gregor can’t join the complaints. An Emperor’s words have too much weight, even when spoken by Gregor Barra. 

Gregor isn’t at the Imperial Academy to become an officer. He’s there because there are those who wouldn’t accept an Emperor without the shine of a military rank. He had to make it into the IAS because it’s the best, and there are enough whispers about his mother’s influence, never formulated for him to argue against, just a sense of some potential failing. He needs the loyalty of the men who will be the future leaders, whether in military or politics. These will be his Counts, his Generals, his Admirals, his movers of men. They watch to see what sort of man their Emperor is, and he wonders what they see. He picks out where to sit for meals carefully and doesn’t let them see any sign that he wishes that there was truth in the saying that here they were free of politics. 

Usually, Gregor’s packing is made slower by Miles’ endless questions about the mindless minutia of the Academy. Miles has never lost his entrancement of the image of it, he hasn’t admitted his desire out loud, but it pours out of him. Gregor has always answered the questions. Maybe he shouldn’t, but it’s hard to complain of his own uselessness when Miles so desperately wants to be what Gregor’s pantomiming. This time the interruptions are different. 

Miles is getting ready for his own year away, though _his_ version of packing seems to mostly be commandeering Gregor’s bed as he watches the Betan vids that Captain Illyan had finally handed over with a pained look, pointing out details as if Gregor could miss them by the difficulty of folding a shirt. Gregor should probably throw him out, but he can’t face the idea. 

A year on Beta Colony. After the morose slump that Miles had fallen into after the dismal end of last term, Gregor had welcomed the return of the hyperactivity, however irritating it can be at times. Miles isn’t his brother, but Gregor recognizes the feeling he hears in classmates’ conversations of family left behind or lofty teasing of those following in a sibling’s footsteps. He couldn’t add his own stories even if he could break through the reserve that enters conversations that he takes part in. 

People (most people, at least) don’t say anything about the Lord Regent’s rumor shrouded son in Gregor’s hearing. Gregor can correct the more outsized myths with facts, but he can’t talk about Miles. The facts are often not much of a defense. Gregor knows the danger that would hang over him if his Lord Regent’s son was as healthy as the Vorpatril cousins that occasionally feature in Miles’ stories. He doubts that he would have had much of a chance to know the Piotr Miles-that-isn’t. As much as was sometimes embarrassing to have to admit to a friend almost five years younger, it’s worse to think that part of him is grateful for Miles’ misfortunes for granting him someone even that close in age. 

Miles will have a whole year away. He’ll travel further than Gregor has, and get to do far more than Gregor would if he ever managed to get a diplomatic visit. Miles watches the vids over and over, and Gregor tries not to imagine himself into them even as Miles obviously is. Gregor even caught him trying to mimic one of the hair styles with an earnestness Miles had decided to scorn around the age of thirteen, and a hope of fitting in Miles has never been able to hold before.

Betan entertainment is strange. Gregor hadn’t realized how used he was to Barrayaran vid story beats (being able to predict the Vorthalia the Bold plot in the opening minute is a separate talent) until he finds himself confused by twists he suspects are just common tropes from Aunt Cordelia’s occasional comments. The actors are even stranger. He can’t think of many vids on Barrayar where the actors don’t fit a certain look, even the villains. On Beta Colony, the wide range of different faces and bodies isn’t just because they have another gender. 

The vids had been picked out by one of Miles’ Betan cousins so Gregor doesn’t know how much they represent Betan entertainment as a whole (there’s an absence of the pornography that Cordelia mutters people seem to think is all that they produce), but that they exist at all is hard to imagine. There are characters with prosthetics or congenital defects, dwarf actors and casual discussions of therapy. Nothing like it would ever be broadcast on Barrayar, not unless they wanted to push a message very different than the creators intended. There’s no one exactly like Miles. On Beta Colony children aren’t poisoned before they’re born in the opening moves of a war to take control of an Empire. But it’s hard to construct any positive sentence around that. 

Gregor recognizes in Miles his own teenage dreams of escape. Gregor knows there’s nothing about him that stands out, when you take away what he is. When he’d looked at the nondescript boy in the mirror, he could almost imagine vanishing into a role that hadn’t been laid out for him from birth. He could live a life where a moment of peace didn’t come at the cost of a dozen men’s paranoia. Where he could make a name for himself instead of bearing the name of his planet. But those were only momentary dreams, ridiculous fantasies that would cost far more than just a few long days. 

Miles’ mother is Betan. Both of his grandmother’s were Betan. He is Vor, he will serve – but there are many places where a sharp mind and fast tongue could be put in service far away from this palace and planet. Maybe it would be for the best. 

Gregor rolls up another pair of socks, half-listening to Miles’ impromptu recitation on the weather patterns of Beta Colony. When Miles returns to Barrayar, Gregor will be Emperor.


	3. 728

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gregor thinks about family and the Emperor considers legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts on the abusive nature of Kareen & Serg's relationship, with the implications of violence towards spouse & child; as well as some contemplation Barrayaran gender roles and power dynamics

In a little less than a month, Gregor will be Emperor and he’s sitting in a meeting on seating plans. Over the years, Gregor has spent a lot of time listening, and eventually offering contributions, to discussions of seating plans. There’s even a game his mother had invented years ago, back when he’d shadowed her as she performed her duties, logic puzzles where he’d had to figure out who could sit next to who. He thinks he’s been able to help on occasion, once he’d started to learn about the various personalities she had to juggle. 

Since the meeting was supposed to be about a new measure in the courts, he’d realized there was little chance of anything productive being achieved almost an hour ago. His mask of careful attention is more than enough for the men to drone on. He’s made up his own game of noticing the most egregious choices, checking his instincts against his mother and Quintillan’s matching pained looks. It’s more useful than trying to interject. He spends a few moments wondering what his Lord Regent is thinking of behind his look of bland interest, and if he’ll be called into a briefing. He hasn’t spoken with Lord Vorkosigan since he’d reestablished a balance of sorts with his mother. 

When it was first conceived, the end of the Regency wasn’t to be marked by any particular ceremony. Gregor had imagined some sort of meeting, perhaps. Some final words to serve as a bridge to the final destination he’s been moving towards at an ever-increasing speed. Maybe a few pieces of sage advice on his majority. Everyone agreed that the transfer of power should be as seamless as possible (there were nights when Gregor wondered if he would even be able to notice). What everyone didn’t agree on was the appropriateness of having such a momentous moment go unnoticed. While Gregor had still been trying to understand the people that were claiming that this would be a momentous change and assuring everyone that Gregor’s full assumption of duties wouldn’t stir up a thing in the same breath, somehow his imagined few words in private had become a formal dinner and dance with public celebrations to be held all over the planet. 

At least the discussions of where best to hold the public celebrations, the debates over what should be done on Komarr, and the arguments over budget, infrastructure projects, and security details are interesting. He supposes the discussions of the formal dinner and dance might be interesting from an outside perspective of marriage customs among the high Vor. 

As his mother had said, it would be easier to believe that the men had developed a genuine interest in matters of social protocol if they weren’t practically passing around lists of potential brides. Gregor would certainly have a lot more sympathy for their failure to realize the disaster they would make of the gathering if he didn’t suspect most of them would like to cut right to handing him gene scans with perhaps a picture attached. Or if they seemed less confident that they knew what they were doing. It’s depressing how few of them even appear to notice the Princess-Dowager’s presence when talking about the job she’s done for over twenty years.

“These are the ones with good intentions,” she says, once the meeting was finally silenced by a few pointed remarks from Lord Vorkosigan. “Mostly good intentions, however close that can sometimes cleave to family ambition.” She doesn’t say that it’s strange that men who have a much closer idea of what it’s like to be the royal family than most would still want that for anyone they care about. Gregor would think that Lord Vorkosigan’s presence would make them think twice, if nothing else. “There will plenty who will push daughters forward with far less thought of the Empire.” 

He accepts that with a nod and a sigh he can allow himself around her, even when they’re still discussing matters of state. “I have much to look forward to.”

She straightens his collar, smile fond, “It would be highly improper for you to start the dance with anyone other than your mother, so you won’t have to worry about that minefield this time.”

He doesn’t want to think about a dance where his mother won’t be in attendance. But when he turns his mind away from the future, he can’t help wondering about the past. Serg hadn’t been Emperor, but he was the heir, the search for his bride no doubt occupied plenty of thought. He wonders if there had been meetings that gave of up even the pretense of being about anything other than picking a woman to provide the next generation of Vorbarra’s. Emperor Ezar was not a man who left things to others, he had most likely been the one to arrange the marriage himself, father and Emperor both putting a weight that he can’t imagine anyone would be able to escape. 

There are pictures of the young couple. Gregor had looked one up, trying to see if there was any hint of the truth in the eyes that look so much like his. If there was a sign the Emperor had known when he’d entrusted the quiet young woman Gregor can still see glimpses of into his son’s protection. Everyone knows Ezra’s eyes had been everywhere. Gregor thinks he still has faint memories of Negri to look back on when he burns an offering, he has no memories of his father. He had been kept away. Emperor Ezar had protected his grandson. Kareen should have received protection, from her Emperor, from the man who swore to be as a father to her. 

Gregor dreads endless attempted matchmaking to come, but his assumptions about marriage had always been separate from that. He’d always known he would be married, would produce an heir. He’d known that even before he’d understood what that meant. It’s as much a duty as anything else, but he’d never been against the ultimate result. He’d seen Lord and Lady Vorkosigan. He’d listened to guards and servants. He’d read the expected romances (and a few less expected ones Aunt Cordelia had made sure ended up in his hands), without much thought. He’d been happy with his mother’s solemn promise that she didn’t want to marry, glad that he wouldn’t have to share her with husband or other children. When he’d grown old enough to realize that there were many other reasons he would not be getting a step-father or half-siblings, he’d hoped that she’d meant it when she said she didn’t want to instead of simply knowing that she couldn’t. Perhaps part of his dream of a great romance between his parents had been born from that hope. 

Someday Gregor would be married. Someday he would have children. A fact of life. As he’d gotten older, the role of ‘wife’ had grown less nebulous and more interesting. He could think of things he would want in her. Sometimes he just thought of having a ‘her’ at all, far too aware of every eye on him to do more than dream, but often the idea of a partner to trust and rely on had an appeal not solely driven by hormones. Someone he could raise his children with. Children who would have two parents and siblings and freedom from his looming destiny. Children he would keep safe from anything bad. He knows that’s not possible for anyone, but he had thought that it wasn’t the most unrealistic dream of the future. 

Gregor can remember Miles at four. He’s paid visits to hospitals and schools and orphanages. He tends to gravitate to the younger children, it’s an image everyone can approve of and he generally finds them easier to deal with. He heard plenty of stories, but he could never imagine – had never feared – hurting them. He can’t imagine hurting a woman, even after years of training with Drou but that’s different. You protect the people who rely on you, and everyone relies on the Emperor. He is the ultimate petition, the ultimate well-being of everyone is held between his hands. A Count who betrays his people must be punished harshly because he’s betrayed them in part in his Emperor’s name. The Emperor’s voice can shape the destiny of planets, so the Emperor has to listen. 

What had Emperor Ezar protected him from? What had he failed to protect the Princess from? What would he have failed to protect the planet from? He doubts that in all the deaths caused in failed dream of conquest, there was only one that left a family safer than if their husband/father/brother had come marching home. But there was only one who posed a danger both to his own family and to every other on three planets. 

The Princess-Dowager had laid out the facts starkly, but Gregor keeps filling in details in his mind. He doesn’t want to ask if what he’s imagining is worse than the truth. He _can’t_ ask it of his mother, because he suspects she would answer. His father has been dead for sixteen years. He doesn’t want to ask how much of his ghost still remains, he doesn’t want to think about his eyes. He is not his father, but would anyone have guessed what Prince Serg would be when he hadn’t even reached his fifth birthday? His mother is sure in who he is not, but how often had she had to think back on who he wasn’t? 

He had asked, angry and raw from the truth, “Did you love Count Vordarian?” He doesn’t know what answer her frozen silence, her distance from the name, means. She’s never spoken much on the Pretendership. He had never thought there was something to ask. Had Vordarian been a man she could care about, or at least had he acted the part of one? Had he been hope for children free from Vorbarra cruelty and madness? He doesn’t regret what he said to Lord Paul Vorreev for his implications that the Princess had wanted to be Empress, Vordarian’s accomplice instead of prisoner. The other cadets had followed his lead in pointed silence, whether or not they’d truly never heard the whispers that said that she had shared his bed or that pointed out she would have greater claim and power to the throne through her blood and name than Vordarian did. Gregor knows his mother, the image painted of her would be funny if he could see through the anger he contained only through years of control. But whatever Vordarian had really wanted, what he had done, there had been a time before that. He doesn’t know what she thinks of the resented than almost wished for imagined half-siblings he could never have. Another question he doesn’t have the nerve (or would it be cruelty) to ask. 

Gregor has always known he would be married, but he’d also always known he would have a choice in it. Nothing would be arranged. He had always had a shield against others’ worries about the security of his line. He needs to think about the women – girls, sometimes – who would be pushed towards him, how much they would be able to say if an Emperor decides he liked them. Aunt Cordelia’s lectures on the topic have always been blunt enough that they linger in the forefront of meetings, but it was his mother who had commented on stories. She had been the one to listened to his history lessons and had made him think about the people left unnamed, the women who are bundled along with men. She had been the one to speak of respect with the quiet forcefulness that means he needs to listen. It was his mother he followed, through who he saw what would be expected of any woman he would marry. He knows she wants him to make a good marriage for his sake, but also for the sake of the Empress who she never was. 

He thinks of the young woman in the photo. His mother isn’t old now, as strange as it is to think of her as having an age. Barrayaran life expectancy might not have caught up with planets like Beta Colony, but it’s long enough that she has plenty of time. When Gregor marries and has children, she’ll be free. Another woman will be expected to take over hosting. A crowd of heirs could allow a chance for another family. She will always be the Emperor’s mother, but that’s a role that could let her fade into something far closer to safety. She won’t always be there to open dances on his arm, but she’ll forgo that chance at freedom for him. For Barrayar. 

“A large percentage likely expect you’re simply waiting a few years,” his mother says, her mind having followed its own path of silent thought. 

He looks up, trying to trace names and expectations. He counts himself as a decent judge of what people want from him, even if he’d have to admit it’s often simply a matter of figuring out how their suggestions would lead to them in positions of power or wealth. It’s harder to trace the whispered impressions people hold of him. 

“In a few years –”

“When Sonia Vorpatril is old enough for marriage.”

Gregor knows that he shouldn’t be surprised, even as he is. He knows why it is that he sees Lord Padma or Lady Alys at court at times but it’s Miles who has stories of Uncle Padma and Aunt Alys and boring Ivan and tag-along younger sisters. Despite Miles complaints, Gregor has seen the picture of him and his cousins, most already taller than him. He might even be able to point out which of the gawky pre-teens is named for a woman who is dead Princess and grandmother in one. A look at the family in general and he’s sure that there would be general agreement that it’s unlikely for her to grow up to be anything but beautiful and accomplished. 

It’s easy to imagine that there are some who expect that they’ll be engaged, if not married, as soon as she’s old enough. It’s a match that would please many, not only the more conservative, with the bloodline making her fitting and preventing her family’s potential ambitions from coming out in more violent means. An easy picture, and one that almost makes him shudder in disgust. 

“A very… calculated arrangement. Do these people think highly of me, or of my advisers?” 

His mother is the master of gracious smiles, Gregor has always treasured her real displays of approval, perhaps even more in knowing how hard people find the Princess-Dowager to read. 

“You don’t have to worry that her parents have any more interest in it than you do.” From what he knows, Gregor thinks that they could be even more averse to the idea than he is. The stories of Lord Padma’s evasions from discussion of bloodlines would be funny if it weren’t for the dark history and disturbing intentions, however useful he might be for catching obvious idiots. 

“That saves me from an announcement of intentions.” His actual intentions are far too shocking to announce any time soon. Families intent on courting have their uses, they shouldn’t be insulted lightly, especially before he has anything to back it up. “I’ll just make sure to limit my dances with any one girl and never be found alone with anyone. I’m sure Miles would be willing to make sure no one’s honor is compromised.”

His mother almost smiles, and he thinks she has the same image of the romantic drama vids that he’s sure can be classified as a state secret if necessary. Miles the chaperone paints its own picture, though a crueler one when he remembers too many people’s reaction to Miles. Not a test someone should have to see fail. 

She looks towards the window, almost as if speaking to someone else. “Your grandfather would have approved.”

Gregor doesn’t think she's talking about his rejection of the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: talks with the Lord Regent & Gregor provides proof that he has a friend around his age (probably, unless things go in a different direction)


	4. 520

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the Emperor thinks on his Regent, and Gregor asks a question

The Conqueror of Komarr. The hero who saved the retreat from Escobar. The destroyer of Vordarian’s Pretendership. The engineer of the strange victory of the third Cetagandan war. A man who could ride the tiger of murderous internecine politics without falling. The Lord Regent who had held three planets for sixteen years and seems content to step back at Gregor’s majority. 

There are few men who would give up that sort of power, Aral Vorkosigan is one. 

Gregor isn’t always sure what he thinks of his Lord Regent. When he was a child, Lord Vorkosigan had been a mostly distant presence, whose occasional laser focus had always been something Gregor preferred to avoid. In all honesty, he had been afraid of Vorkosigan, though he wouldn’t have been able to say why. The man was always kind. He offered a direct honesty and clear expectations that were more comfortable than the vagaries of many of the staff. But while Cordelia became an Aunt and Miles was Miles, the Lord Regent had a job to do. 

As he grew older, Gregor spent more time in his company. He watched his Regent govern. He sat and listened to how he talked with subordinates and opponents and ambassadors and all the rest of the people the Emperor has to know. He listened with more interest to lessons on military tactics and unspoken ones on how to keep your temper in the face of failure. He loses his fear of his Regent, even as he has a harder time understanding how he’s supposed to follow in Vorkosigan’s footsteps. But the feeling of distance has always remained. 

He’s aware that the Lord Regent received reports on his progress. A few – quickly corrected – guardsmen had even sometimes delivered Gregor to him for talks about behavior, though that simply meant a few minutes longer before facing his mother’s judgment.

From what Gregor’s learned in eavesdropping on other cadets, in some families that would practically make him a father. But that’s never a position the Lord Regent had filled. Gregor has a mother who always had time for him, an Aunt he could go to with questions and an Uncle that worked to keep him safe. Lord Vorkosigan is Miles’ da, he’s one of the Empire’s servants. Gregor still sometimes has a hard time reconciling the figure he knows with the man at the edges of some of Miles’ stories, but then, he thinks Miles sometimes has a hard time imagining Gregor’s mother as something other than the Princess-Dowager, for all he calls her Aunt Kareen in private. It’s how things are.

Gregor has studied history. However more interesting tale tellers seem to find it, not all Regency end in death and bloodshed. A more or less peaceful transfer of power isn’t hard to find, with the former Regent usually transferred into a position where they continue to hold a degree of power. Even the figure of Regent-turned-stepfather, most beloved of lured dramas, has frequently failed to villainously murder the child they’re responsible for. None of those men, however, had anywhere close to the amount of power Vorkosigan finesses. The stakes are too high for any slip up, anything that would pop the consensus reality – or delusion – of monarchy that will make untested Gregor Emperor instead of a man who has consistently proven more than capable. 

The true hero of Escobar. The man who’d provided a strong enough defense even in retreat that the disastrous war had still left Barrayar and Empire. The opposite of Princes Serg, chosen to protect a monster’s bloodline right to the throne. 

At twenty, Gregor’s a grown man, but he can put his pride aside enough to know most of his Ministers and Counts would still call him ‘boy’, if they didn’t see the Emperor. If they don’t see the Emperor as he needs to be. An untested boy, whose grown up with a camp-stool he’s done nothing to earn. It’s far too easy to understand why his father wanted to go to war, as much as Gregor would prefer it unfathomable. If he can see one part, is all the rest truly completely alien? 

When Serg had been twenty, Aral Vorkosigan had been planning the Komarr Invasion. It’s hard to imagine him cultivating the Crown Prince. Gregor knows his opinion on soldiers in politics. And on the men who had tried to get too close to him, though he thinks the ones caught in the Lord Regent’s stare are luckier than those who discovered the protective nature of the Princess-Dowager. Still, there must have been overlap. Dedication to service and rejection of political maneuvering isn’t the same as not wanting to know who you’ll be serving. Gregor doesn’t know who he is at twenty, had his father? Had those who’d seen him? The more Gregor looks, the more complete the purging of anyone who’d known the Prince personally seems to be. 

Had Vorkosigan known the truth of the Crown Prince by the end? He has spent sixteen years watching Gregor, what has he seen? What would he have done if he had seen a monster? 

Gregor isn’t completely certain what his mother thinks of his Regent, but she had been the one to assure him of his safety when he’d been young and afraid. When mixtures of memories and dark stories had made him uncertain of his future, she had always offered him her certainty that the Lord Regent was there to protect them. 

Every meeting, Gregor has a harder time biting back the questions. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t ask. Vorkosigan hadn’t told him of his father. Would he have, if asked? How many of the eyes watching him are looking for dangers lurking within, as well as without? Gregor nods his acceptance of a new measure to be brought before the Counts, trying to ignore the resentment and the worry the resentment sparks within him. He has always followed his Regent, but in bare weeks he is supposed to lead. Silence is too easy to follow. 

“Tell me about Escobar.” The words are sudden, maybe more a surprise to him than to Vorkosigan. Perhaps Vorkosigan has been expecting something, maybe decades of politics mean that it would take a lot more to provoke an expression of surprise. 

“What do you wish to know?” His eyes are half-lidded, expression cool. There’s no comment on Gregor demanding information like a child searching for a story. Gregor hadn’t thought he’d ever miss the lectures on proper behavior, but there’s a falling feeling when his rash words go unchecked. 

“You were a Commodore in the fleet.”

“Yes, Sire.”

A pointed enough response to such an obvious statement that it makes Gregor feel somehow more at ease. He knows of Lord Vorkosigan’s service during the Escobaran war. There had been plenty of nights where he had sat with Miles at the table, moving around whatever food stuffs had been pressed into service to illustrate the retreat from Escobar or the Komarran plan or battles from whatever war Gregor was learning of. He can remember the warmth of Lord Vorkosigan’s approval.

He can remember Lord Vorkosigan teaching him how to sail, one of the rare summers he’d gone to Vorkosigan Surleau. Vorkosigan had smiled at him, looking almost young, as he’d assured him the escape from riding was more for him than as a service to Gregor. He remembers leaning against Aunt Cordelia when he’d still be young enough to get away with it but old enough to stay up to see the Lord Regent and Princess-Dowager start off the dancing. The eyes of that man are hard to meet, hard to question. Harder to ask these questions of than the careful Regent. Gregor can think of how he would protect his own children, but it’s an easier thought than wondering what it would be to have to protect others from them. 

“You served with my father.”

Count Vorkosigan, who probably doesn’t look unimpressed solely due to Gregor’s disinterest in horses, likely would’ve said _spit it out, boy_. His son manages to restrain it to a look. He knows the conversation Gregor had with his mother. The one with Aunt Cordelia. He probably has a list of the records he’d looked through. They both know, but he’s making Gregor ask. There’s a test in that. 

“Was that also where you obtained those first seventeen uterine replicators?” 

Gregor shouldn’t feel quite so satisfied that this time he does manage to provoke surprise.


	5. interlude: be kind (rewind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seventeen canisters (ft. Henri Vorvolk)

It was Henri who brings the question to Gregor directly, but it all comes back to the Vorkosigan’s. 

Gregor the Officer is a joke, but that doesn’t mean the Academy doesn’t offer important opportunities, or that Gregor hasn’t failed to grasp them. These are the best and the brightest of Barrayar, the men that will face the future with full confidence that they can take whatever might come, but many of them will survive to grow out of that brash belief and into good officers. They are the sons and cousins and even heirs of Counts. They are men that will matter.

Gregor is well aware of his lack of personal charm. He should be making connections, even if they could never be friends. He should take active part in thinking of who will be part of his future. He has spent time learning of the current Counts, this is a chance to start working on the support for the ones that will truly be his men once the old guard starts opening up. He might not ever truly lead them in battle, but this is a chance to win their hearts and minds. 

The mind is something that Gregor can address. He does well in his classes. He thinks he shows willing to face up to any struggle in the exercises. He can talk knowledgeably enough on matters important to an Emperor, which is a wider range than some people seem to expect. But he’s not charming. People want to be close to the Emperor, not the man, and Gregor doesn’t have the skill to turn take one and make it grow to the other. He knows all the proper social courtesies, but they’re stiff and hollow on his tongue even in the formality of court. People don’t gravitate to him; he has more chance of hoping for respect for the appearance of solemn thought, as long as they don’t catch on that he’s just afraid. 

His mother had apologized for it once, after he’d finally admitted the loneliness that lingered even in classes full of children. He had thought that things would be different outside of the solitude of just a tutor, but, somehow, it’s worse. She had held him, even though he had felt to old to lean into her shoulder as he held back tears that had built up over the months. She had said that she had been just as shy, a curse passed down. He’d had a hard time believing it of the glittering women who enchanted the court so, but as he grew he’d noticed the small number of people that might actually be called friends, and he doesn’t think all of that is because of the nature of her position. 

Sometimes he holds onto it as hope that eventually he’ll be able to at least learn to project the right look, sometimes it just adds another weight against the chance to have friends. 

Henri Vorvolk is a few years younger than Gregor, and one of the few people at the Academy already a Count in his own right. Unlike Gregor, he has warm memories of his da before the man’s unfortunate death. Henri worries that the memories will fade away. He wants to live up to ideals of honor and loyalty. He’s unsure of his position, both in his district and in council because of his age and inexperience. He loves his younger siblings and wishes he didn’t feel there was a distance between them of more than years. He wants ship duty as much as the rest of them but feels a responsibility to stay on planet after graduation. He has a talent for math and a head for small details. 

Gregor isn’t quite sure how they became friends, but somewhere between enthusiastic defenses of five spaces math and worried questions about the Council of Counts, he’d found himself admitting to some of his own thoughts. Maybe it’s Henri’s dogged determination and tendency towards bluntness that usually stops short of being completely tactless. It’s probably not an accomplishment that he should hope to receive prizes for announcing at age nineteen. 

Henri is an unlikely candidate for ImpSec, but he does bring rumors to Gregor’s ears directly. It’s not really surprising that many surround the Vorkosigan family. Years as Regent have put them in the spotlight but the increasing clues that Lord Vorkosigan is planning on giving up that Regency without trouble has stirred up a whole new set – or old one. What sort of man gives up such power? An admirable one, but there are plenty who add cynicism to go with the star struck. 

There are people who believe Miles a mutant, and would however many documents have shown, because he has no younger siblings. If there isn’t something wrong, what parents wouldn’t try for another child. Those who could see a son might be dangerous consider the lack of a daughter a trump card in the argument. An injured boy is bad enough, a mutant is further proof of the dangers and degeneracy of – well, there’s a whole range of things he’s heard inserted there. 

Count Vorkosigan has not disinherited his son, but it would take a lot for a man to call for an Imperial order to disinherit as son from that son. Gregor, who knows Count Vorkosigan, doubts that would stop him if he truly wanted to. For all the disagreements, there’s a deeper bond that ties together the two Vorkosigan’s left after the rampage of a Mad Emperor. But few believe that the Count won’t chose a different heir to save his district (Henri puts ‘save’ in quotes, likely more for Gregor’s feelings than because of any personal disagreement, but that’s something). 

Some think that the Count will choose Lord Padma. A nephew is certainly close enough in blood that it wouldn’t raise many objections, especially a nephew whose produced a gaggle of healthy heirs and is already closer to the Vorkosigan seat than the Vorpatril one. But while it would fall to him naturally, an active choice would have political undertones that the Count, stiffly in line with his son’s policies as he often is, wouldn’t allow to grow. 

Gregor doesn’t know what Count Vorkosigan thinks of his grandson. There are the occasional visits and Miles talks about him animatedly enough. He’s even brought him with him to visit a few parts of the district. But the Lord Regent and family have never moved back to Vorkosigan house, and the man’s silence speaks for itself. But he knows most wouldn’t dream that there was even a chance the Count might think anything of the boy who doesn’t have his name. 

Of the theories floating around, the only one people find as unlikely as Count Vorkosigan allowing a mutant to ultimately take his seat is that he might chose to add a new branch to the family with a son sired with the help of a uterine replicator. Could one think that a man of the old guard would embrace galactic technology? It’s almost too ridiculous to even contemplate. Almost. Lady Alys and Lord Padma’ children are uterine births, and while the Count isn’t one to bow to fashion, that’s family. And General Count Piotr Vorkosigan, Miles had once pointed out, has truthfully embraced more change than many younger men could claim. Besides, a much younger uncle that brings danger to a grandson’s claim is very traditional, it’s only unusual in the idea of method. 

Gregor doesn’t think it’s likely. Not with Count Vorkosigan. He doesn’t think he’ll name a different heir, though the rumors that Count Vorkosigan is holding on long enough that he can demand Gregor look at the matter of inheritance of his son and Gregor’s former regent is a scenario that makes him shudder, however much he’s sure it won’t come. Still, it’s a question that will come up sooner or later. 

Gregor hadn’t thought much on uterine replicators. They seem like a sensible choice, but he’s never had to worry about the risk of pregnancy. They’re still costly, and like with all new technology, they’ll bring new questions of law. It’s simple enough when they come from married parents who are hale and hearty, but eventually the court will be faced with questions for children outside those careful unions. 

The law holds that the Count’s choice beats almost anything, especially if he has enough sway to get his most obvious heir out of the running (most probably suspect Count Vorkosigan of being far fonder of horses than of his grandson). Part of Gregor doesn’t like it, but that’s personal sentiment instead of fair judgment. Looked at clearly, there’s no difference than if there was a second marriage. Perhaps. There are banks of genes, but that would likely make most rule towards bastardy. An acknowledged one, but that has its own questions. Cordelia had once carelessly mentioned that on Beta Colony, clones can legally be considered children or younger siblings of their maker. The legal implications of that are enough of a headache to beat out the image of Count Vorkosigan glaring at him. 

Still, Gregor does have some practical knowledge of uterine replicators. He knows Miles was one of the first births, that Miles only _survived_ to be born (a second time) because they were on hand. Gregor had been given a simple demonstration of how they work during one of Miles many stays in ImpMil, he’d been both interested and too intimidated by the doctor to refuse the offer. By the time Lady Alys had performed her careful showmanship there had been a larger number of the machines on Barrayar, but once there had only been seventeen. An odd number for an odd piece of technology from Escobar to be taken so quickly into the military hospital. 

For obvious reasons, Miles never featured in public talks on the benefits of uterine replicators, but neither had any other older child. It would be easy to believe that they hadn’t even existed on Barrayar until the birth – as it seems most polite to call it - of Lady Alys’ daughter. Gregor hadn’t spent much time thinking on it.

Seventeen canisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's going to be some short pieces from Kareen's pov mostly covering/overlapping with the time between 'what we can't accept' and 'countdown' which currently features Drou, Kareen's new man & Vorkosigan marriage drama but is open for ideas if there's interest in other things that have gone down in this timeline


	6. 518

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord Regent talks honestly to his Emperor; Gregor thinks about progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important content warning: much more blunt discussion of Serg's (and other Barrayaran soldiers') crimes; but also thoughts on rape culture on Barrayar in general, with victim blaming (thoughts of, not from Gregor), lack of prosecution and why it would be rarely reported

Vorkosigan studies Gregor for long moments that feel like eternities. Gregor looks back, trying to seem – what? Like an Emperor? 

Gregor has stood waiting for his Lord Regent’s judgment countless times, never sure of what’s been looked for or what’s found. He wonders if Lord Vorkosigan was looking for his father. Or his grandfather. Or looking at Gregor and trying to see if all the sacrifices have been worth… this. He had put his hands between Gregor’s when Gregor was a child, how many times over the years had he wondered whether he could trust his honor to the man that child would grow into. He doesn’t think Vorkosigan wants to be Emperor, but after everything he’s done as Regent, could he abandon them all to an Emperor who would bring them to ruin? 

Gregor knows that for many, the greatest testament to his character will be that Lord Vorkosigan is willing to step down. 

His mother had told him once that his grandfather had chosen a man who wouldn’t steal his birthright. He knows that Aunt Cordelia finds the idea of ‘birthright’ a ridiculous political concept. His mother has always held unswervingly to his role as Emperor, but there are times he wonders. She had always talked pragmatically about the legacy of Emperor Dorca, of one branch of Vorbarra’s rising above others. If the Cetagandans hadn’t come. If Yuri had had children or hadn’t been mad. Emperor Ezar hadn’t been born to be Emperor. Yuri had. Serg had. Gregor finds it unlikely that his Regent wouldn’t have noticed the pattern. 

Lord Vorkosigan had taken a cut out Mad Emperor Yuri. Count Vorkosigan had helped make an Emperor. The Vorkosigans offer loyal service, but they expect that service to be repaid by the Emperor’s. When the contract was broken, they had acted. Would Vorkosigan have acted? Emperor Ezar had entrusted his family into his care, had he entrusted them to his judgment, too? A hard thing to ask, but Emperor’s rarely make easy requests.

When Lord Vorkosigan finally speaks, Gregor does his best to keep his look steady. It seems to have worked so far.

“Yes, the uterine replicators came from Escobar. After the end of the war, I took charge of a prisoner of war camp as we worked to exchange them. The canisters were delivered to me on the last day by an Escobaran medical technician.” It’s hard to read Vorkosigan’s expression, part almost nostalgic, part – something Gregor can’t read. 

Vorkosigan pauses another moment before continuing, though there’s no hesitation in his voice, or give in his eyes. “The children of Escobarans who had been raped by Barrayaran soldiers, left in my charge.”

Gregor had been expecting the answer, it doesn’t make it easier than any of the other times his Lord Regent had bluntly explained why certain soldiers were facing punishment. They are his soldiers, soon they will be completely his. Barrayar might not be a signatory on as many interplanetary agreements on war crimes as people like Aunt Cordelia might prefer, but the action of a man reflects on his superior, and they’d had the concept of actions that stained a Emperor’s honor before the end of the Time of Isolation. Gregor had approved of more stringent definitions, the Emperor’s honor, it seemed, had been expected to easily bear the burden of some crimes. There’s still too much of a tendency towards secrecy. Gregor almost laughs at that thought, but there is no room for hysteria. 

“Contraceptive implants are common on Escobar.” Especially for soldiers. They might not always work, but malfunctions are exceedingly rare. 

Vorkosigan doesn’t make him ask the question this time. “They are. Prince Serg liked to order them removed. He probably said something about further proof of why women don’t belong in combat, if he gave a justification of his order. I heard of it… after the fact.” And what danger lives in that pause, even more than a decade and a half later. “The captain sets the tone of a ship.” He feels another bubble of something that isn’t really amusement at his Regent’s old phrase. “Each man acted as he did, but too many saw their leaders felt a stop on a planet for relaxation and rape of prisoners of war was fine behavior.”

“Not as many survived.” He wonders if Vorkosigan thinks that was for the best.

“There is that.” It’s hard to know what’s behind the bland tone. Disgust. A tinge of dark humor. The too full silence that always made even Miles reluctant to push in questions on Escobar. 

“You took them to Barrayar.” 

“Yes. I had pledged my word to them, in a sense. There might still be a receipt.” Gregor suspects his Aunt’s hand in there somewhere, that nostalgic look tends to only appear around her. “They were, born, I suppose, in the Imperial Military Hospital. Seventeen healthy children, most sent to one of the orphanages. Not the only orphans of Escobar.”

“Did you test to see who the fathers’ were?”

“We didn’t need to; they came with paternal gene complements attached.” He clearly sees something Gregor’s face, because he shakes his head. “No, Sire, there were no royal bastards in the batch. I can’t say that Serg had too much sense for that, but someone might have. They might not have survived. He had an… interest in hurting pregnant women. If there had been, they wouldn’t have survived the Emperor.”

Over a decade in politics and Aral Vorkosigan can still be trusted to be blunt. It’s why Gregor had asked him. He can also be trusted to do his best to impart some sort of lesson, even if it takes time before Gregor figures out what it is. 

There’s no half-sibling Vorkosigan realized Gregor was wondering about even before he had fully realized it himself, but he still feels a sort of bond with those seventeen children. After all, they were likely told their fathers had died heroes to the war effort too. They will likely never know the truth. Gregor doesn’t wish for that ignorance. He dryly suspects that most of them would probably take the truth if it came with a loving mother, the best education, all the material support he could desire and all the other privileges he’s grown up with, so perhaps it isn’t the strongest bond. He realizes he doesn’t know if his mother knows this part of the story. He doesn’t think it would surprise her. 

Seventeen children. Seventeen mothers – seventeen women, he doesn’t know how they see themselves. If any of the men survived, would they be fathers? It seems an automatic definition, but only in relation to the child. Other women who had also been raped when they had been taken prisoner by Barrayaran soldiers. On Barrayar, they would be expected not to speak of it. He knows that rape remains a crime that too often goes unreported. They’ve worked to improve things, but the attitude of the judge still varies from district to district and in all of them the majority of perpetrators won’t go to prison. Going to court is more likely to result in shame for the woman, even when the perpetrator is found guilty. There are still places where the punishment is a fine paid to the woman’s father. 

Both Aunt Cordelia and his mother had spoken to Gregor about it, in a cross between sex education and tutoring on social mores. The struggle between cosmopolitan and traditional in Vorbarr Sultana, where the call of the modern didn’t stop editorializing on places a woman shouldn’t have been, things she shouldn’t have done, or just a sense that she should have sought protection. It was Aunt Cordelia who pointed out that there were whole professions where any report of rape would be immediately dismissed, and that it’s almost impossible to find a man reporting an attack, with added frustration at the trouble of instituting reforms in military courts. It was his mother who had talked about what saying something could mean in a community where people were mostly expected to live for their entire lives, modes of behavior that remain even as mobility increases. She had spoken frankly of old Vor families, and the unlikelihood it was any easier in non-Vor families to expect something better once you’d already found yourself dismissed or facing disbelief from your own kin. He thinks it must have been Aunt Cordelia who had him look up how many districts don’t even recognize marital rape. Another reminder of the power he holds in any relationship as Emperor. 

He doesn’t know what’s expected on Escobar. He’s not even sure what’s expected on Komarr, where rape is more often reported and mentioned, but usually the perpetrator is a Barrayaran, another instance where the use of military courts tends to spark trouble. But he doesn’t have a Komarrans perspective on the more personal type of social reactions that papers don’t report on. There’s much that has to be improved to make it that they don’t deserve a reputation for backwards barbarianism. 

It’s been sixteen years. Vorkosigan, at least, would have enacted some sort of punishment. That Gregor has just learned of his father’s crimes doesn’t erase that time has passed. It had all taken place before Gregor had been even a child Emperor. That doesn’t make the idea of doing nothing feel any less wrong.


	7. 130

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gregor listens to his mother (the personal is as ever political, but there are times and places he's not the Emperor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting into Kareen/Vordarian, and the implied general massive consent problems through that relationship

The personal remains ever more political, but there are spaces he’s not Emperor)

Gregor sits in the pavilion, at the small table overlooking the garden. It’s one of his favorite spots, summer or winter. Even when the walls are up to protect from the weather, it’s always felt more private than most of the rooms inside the palace. He absently maps out the location of guards, remembering Miles’ gleeful ‘game’ of pointing out danger spots that had been appreciated by Captain Illyan and most Vorbarra guardsmen, if not by those who’d found themselves facing critique at the hand of an eight-year-old. Gregor wonders sometimes how that automatic paranoia is working out on Beta Colony, the flaws in the security for planetary arrivals had been the subject of a long letter that had barely remembered to acknowledge that he had settled in fine with his grandmother. 

He’s not surprised when his mother joins him, taking one of the small cups of coffee that only she tolerates in the morning. She looks tired, and not just from the early schedule he knows she’s used to. He wonders sometimes what her somewhat-less-official briefings cover. 

“I had thought you were dead.” She says, voice low. She doesn’t need to offer more explanation. 

Gregor pauses over the groats he’d been pushing around, wondering what to say. He’s not sure if he should say something, or if that would burst this strange bubble. His mother doesn’t speak of the Vordarian Pretendership. Gregor still wakes up sometimes from fragments of nightmares born in that time, and he had been young and mostly safe. He still remembers clinging to his mother, only at the moment of contact convinced he’d ever be allowed to see her again, and thinking she felt different. He’d realized later that everything was different, she had turned out to be the one thing that was the same. 

She looks at him, and Gregor’s always been sure he’s not the only one to still have nightmares. 

“Vordarian used to talk about how we would get married after you were rescued. Our savior. It would have looked good to have you at a point on the star. I don’t know how much he thought I believed him. I don’t know how much he believed. Solid proof of your death would’ve provided its own narrative. A smaller wedding.”

She’s quiet for long enough after that that Gregor’s careful not to hold his breath. 

“He was loyal to Barrayar. Loyal to something.” Gregor knows his mother’s voice better than anyone, his hand tightens around his spoon at the bitterness that’s pointed inwards. “He might have been able to hold out against Serg. He was always surrounded by sycophants, which made it easy for him to overestimate the attraction he held to others. The men who were drawn to him by common interests weren’t always easy bedmates with one another. Vordarian understood more of duty. _Anyone_ would have understood more of duty than Serg, but Vordarian was Vor and competent enough. His distract is still one of the economically vital ones, and it ran well enough. He was unattached.”

Gregor wants to tell her she doesn’t have to justify anything to him, but he doesn’t think the words are just for him. 

“He might have stood against Serg. He could’ve never stood against Vorkosigan. I thought he would understand that. Maybe he did. Not well enough to find a competent assassin. Once Vorkosigan was in play – but he didn’t seem to be an option.”

 _Have you ever forgiven him that_ , Gregor wonders, but that might be too much honesty, even for this moment. Maybe his mother sees a different question in his eyes because she gives him a strange, almost fey smile. 

“I know they say I seduced Vordarian into rebellion. Because I wanted him. Because he wanted me.” She doesn’t have to say that the Princess is the one blamed in both those stories. “We tried to protect you from the rumors. Perhaps I thought they would die down in time.”

“People still talk.” Less so, probably, but some rumors never seem to die. 

“They do. Sometimes they even come close enough to a truth to be dangerous. I never loved Vordarian, but I did choose him. My little political game to play while your grandfather said nothing of his plans beyond his promise of his protection and Serg bragged about how close he was to causing his father’s death. Perhaps he was more right than some think. The assassination attempts were stopped, but I think knowing what his son was in full detail took something from Ezar. A hard truth to live with, even for a man who demanded hard truths. 

“Ezar gave me promises from his sickbed, and I offered mine as a promise to Vordarian. He wanted power. Perhaps he wanted me as well. His claim would have been safer with you alive, as long as you were still a child. Perhaps I just told myself that; that he would take the position of Regent and that would be enough for him, that he had that much sense. Regency over three planets. A son and heir to his Countship with even more royal blood. I shouldn’t have underestimated his appetites, or perhaps I underestimated his desperation in my own.”

This is old poison, grown more potent rather than less over the years. He hopes she hasn’t been holding it alone. He can’t help picturing the world conjured by her words. Gregor as truly just a figurehead of a child Emperor under Vordarian’s control, perhaps moving to grant half-siblings the Vorbarra name to allow a continuation without him. But that would have been Vordarian’s dream, one that didn’t take in his mother. She said Vordarian would have had the Empire, and her. But she would’ve had Gregor. What would she have told him? What would she have wanted him to become?

He thinks of the array of half-siblings he’s never had. Younger siblings born as proof of loyalty and protection. The Princess wouldn’t have been trusted support for any other claim if she had Vordarian’s children. But would that have made them any different to her than Gregor, who ties her to just the same legacy. Once, even if only for lack of options, she had chosen Vordarian. Had she ever had even that much choice with Serg? 

“He liked romantic imagery. When he was with me, at least. He had a sense for it. I didn’t have to give him the picture of you at our wedding, he saw it himself. He could dismiss the danger of a five-year-old. By then, I had quickly learned he had no real skill in looking long term. But he came to me and I thought you were dead. In the lake with Negri. Lost in some accident while on the run. Killed by better assassins then those aimed at Vorkosigan, so he didn’t have to worry about future struggles. Looking back – not all the fears were rational. Every night, I thought he would bring final proof of your death with him.” Her eyes are distant, sixteen years away from this table. 

“That night, he talked of children. Now, I think it was prompted by the hostages. A growing worry about his legacy. Maybe he had truly constructed some fantasy where I would feel better with the dream of children I had been deprived of du tot Serg’s _proclivities_.” She shakes her head. “Though he had no idea what those truly were. Ges Vorrutyer had a reputation large enough to paint both of them.” His mother has always held a distance when it comes to the Vorrutyer family, but the venom with which she says the name of – Admiral? – Ges Vorrutyer opens more questions, for a different moment. 

“He spoke of the children we could have. That we _would_ have.” Her hand touches her stomach, in a gesture he doesn’t think involves conscious thought. “In his words, I heard only that my son was dead. Vorkosigan was gathering more districts by the day, the more he had already sworn to him, the simpler the settlement would’ve gone. I knew that, even if I don’t know much of how wars play out in the fight. 

“Vordarian used to give me gives. Beautiful things for a woman who deserved objects of art that could almost match her beauty.” She shakes her head. “He was never the smoothest man. There was a certain appeal in that. They really were beautiful. There was a music box. In an older time, it might have been fragile, but we can have delicacy that doesn’t mean breakable, and he made it clear that he remembered he was giving it to a woman with a four-year-old. Head wounds bleed profusely. The bed was quite covered in blood… I think that proved useful to stop some of the stories. It painted me as less of a willing traitor.” 

“Mother –” Gregor doesn’t know what he wants to say. What he could say to fix things. To erase the past. But that’s impossible. Even an Emperor’s Word can’t go that far. 

She shakes her head, cutting off whatever stumbling statement he might have come out with. 

“Now you have the facts, ones you should have had before you were far away enough that rumors could have time to settle in. You know what truth they have. It can be useful to let others think they know more than you, but only when it’s not true.” Always a lesson, there’s comfort in that. 

Maybe there are words. Things that a different son, maybe a better one, could say. Assurances or understanding or vows that she would be able to believe in. 

Gregor pushes back from the table, and the mostly untouched meal, standing to embrace his mother. It feels different at twenty than it had at five, but she’s still the same women. “I love you.” He can give her one piece of perfect honesty, a truth that will never waver. 

He doesn’t know what she’ll think about the plans he’s started to realize that he’s been formulating for a lot longer than just this past month. He doesn’t know what will come next. But he hopes she’ll always be proud of him, know that she’d raised him to do what is right.


	8. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there's a party, and the start of a new era - in official political terms

The party is going well. There are still a few hours left before the serious drinkers will take over and Gregor can relax or relax as much as an Emperor ever can. He’ll be expected to stay, though, luckily, not to outdrink anyone, but eligible ladies won’t be presented, no serious talk can be expected to be remembered, servicemen are on duty to make sure no guest goes where they shouldn’t, and anything even close to a weapon is firmly out of reach. There are times when everyone knows the Emperor is just there as a symbol, and Gregor might even partake in some of the more lightweight drinking contests among the men who remain mostly cheerful even when drunk. 

Right now, Gregor is still expected to keep up a certain level of sociability, but it’s a degree that even he can handle without trouble, even on days when he didn’t suspect a minor conspiracy among senior staff to make things as easy for him as possible, which he doesn’t feel requires any sort of rejection. Most of the women he’s danced with have been on the more ‘matronly’ side of things, or good at pretending the part, including Aunt Cordelia, whose assures him that Aral is more resigned than anything at the confirmation that he’ll be Prime Minister and Lady Alys, who turned out to have a collection of amusing anecdotes about various Counts she can share without losing a step. 

Miles had sat with him for a bit, but even though he still looks paler than seems fully explained by his year mostly out of the sun (an impression admittedly suggested in part by Arsman Stas’ slightly panicked looked when he lost sight of his charge), he’s recovered enough from his silent mood to make a few jokes about how it must have taken at least a few hours to throw this shindig together and whether the amount of wine Count Vordurn can put away counts as theft from the crown, which had been a relief. He and Henri had seemed to get on when they’d met, before Miles had abandoned them for the younger crowd. 

Gregor has derived some quiet amusement in watching Lord Ivan Vorpatril, whose attempts to go between smiling charmingly at his date and sending warning glares over to where Miles is talk – conferring, even – with a tall young women who must be his sister leave him looking like he’s suffering facial spasms. He suspects Lord Padma Vorpatril finds it equally funny, as he’s cheerfully ignored his son’s pleading looks in order to tease _his_ cousin. It can be hard to think of the Lord Regent – the Prime Minister as a family man when he’s in uniform, but Lord Padma’s dramatically staged confusion over just _who_ could _possibly_ be chosen from such a _long_ list of candidates has made even Count Vorkosigan smile. 

His mother seems to be having a good time. The Princess-Dowager, Empress Mother, would never ruffle her role son’s hair in public or let herself get struck down by any obvious sentimentality, but she’d smiled with less of the secret strain than usual during the long toasts and he’d even heard her laugh a few times from where she had stepped back from hosting to sit with Minister Quintillan, Aunt Cordelia and Lady Filippa. 

Captain Illyan looks like he’s not entirely sure he shouldn’t have set a few more men to stand guard on the fireworks, which might be as relaxed as he can be. If the Emperor can never be completely at ease, his chief of security must be even less so. But Gregor doesn’t think that his quiet talk with Captain Koudelka was purely on work matters, and there had been a smile when the Empress Mother had demanded a dance. 

Henri’s nerves had steadied after the first toasts, and he’s telling a woman (Lady something Vorsmythe) about his dance number theory, though her patience hasn’t been faced with anything being knocked over by his enthusiastic hand gestures yet. Perhaps not completely representative of the new wave of Counts, but not a bad start. Gregor has seen some far worse examples of the old guard, but tonight is not a night to do anything about them beyond having them watched. 

Across Barrayar, the parties ushering in a new era have been going without any more major trouble than the expected public drunkenness. If there are any riots on Komarr, nothing serious enough to merit the attention of the highest ranks of the government. On a different planet, this assemblage of the great and powerful would likely have plenty of cameras in attendance to capture the moment for history, but that’s one mark of ‘progress’ Gregor doesn’t regret being without. There are some parts of history that should be taken out of the shadows, there are other memories that can just belong to the people there. 

Tomorrow will be a new day, he might even be looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gregor actually wanting to be Emperor might have it's own warning signs, but it's a new era non-the-less. 
> 
> Coming soon: The Komarran Gambit, in which the Emperor contemplates a *very* inappropriate affair, Lady Vorbarra makes some moves and will the real Piotr Miles please stand up
> 
> will probably take a little longer, as it has something an actual plot instead of mostly an excuse for Gregor to meditate on Barrayar and family problems. unless it turns out just to be an excuse for Duv to meditate on Komarr, Barrayar and family problems through the lens of history. But there'll finally be a look at Gregor's work at reforms (and the troubles he faces), some wider political games, and what a non-military Miles Vorkosigan even does with his life.

**Author's Note:**

> next time Epilogue: in which things aren't wrapped up at all


End file.
